for I am more then these bones
by everywordnotsaid
Summary: They say that to lie is a sin, but does it count if you're just lying to yourself?


This begins with the first episode of GitS SAC season one and draws from the rest of the series, it's going to be a two-shot. Any dialogue lifted from the show I do not own. This is just basically just a closer look at Togusa, because damn do I love that boy. Also, I went with the name Meijiro for Togusa's wife because I've seen it used for a few other fics.

* * *

Someone, a long time ago, once said 'I seek strength, not to be greater than others, but to fight my greatest enemy, the doubts within myself', but, Togusa thinks as he empties his Mateba into the paper silhouette hanging at the end of the range, that sometimes that is a strength he does not think he has. He flicks the light on and six bullet holes shine, five through the center ring and one through the next ring out. Close, but in this business close isn't good enough. In this business, close costs lives. He leans down and pulls six more rounds out of the box of ammunition by his feet, slides them into the cylinders one by one, feels their weight in his palm.

"What a waste of the money."

A voice says, the words echoing loud as gunshots in the quiet range. He looks up and sees the Major, leaning against the railing above him, watching him. Her lips are curled into the slightest hint of a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"If you're afraid you're going to miss, maybe you should get prosthetics."

And her voice is joking, but it's not. He's quiet for a long time, unsure of how to reply, unsure if he should. The silence stretches on for a little too long, he can feel sweat start to pool at the nape of his neck and drip down his spine under the harsh lights and harsh eyes. His gun feels heavy in his hand and he swallows, throat dry.

"You're telling me I should become a cyborg too?"

She laughs, then.

"Well it's just a suggestion, I'm not trying to order you around or anything."

She turns, walking away from him, and throws over her shoulder,

"Come on, we didn't hire you away from police HQ for nothing. Let's put those special talents of yours to work. We're going to find out precisely what happened in that restaurant, and what the Minister of Foreign Affairs is hiding."

He follows her, hurriedly packing away his gun and box of ammo before swinging his bag over his shoulder. Because maybe there are still doubts in him he hasn't conquered, and maybe he's still not quite sure of his place here, but damn if he doesn't love what he does.

It's late when he gets home, past two or so. He sheds his clothes and slips into bed quietly. Meijiro's lying on her side facing away from him, but he can tell from her breathing she's not asleep. Suddenly he wants to hold her in his arms, feel something warm and gentle and innocent. He killed a man today, he wants to feel something that's alive. He slides closer to her, pressing his stomach to her back and wraps an arm around her waist. She lies still and cold in his grasp though, and when he presses his lips to the soft skin of her neck she shifts away. He pulls back, confused.

"You didn't call."

She whispers, and her voice is soft but it feels loud in the quiet darkness of their bedroom. He flinches, he had been so wrapped up in the case he had forgotten to call home.

"I'm sorry."

He replies, and means it. She rolls over then, and there is something desperate to her face, the light trickling in from the street glinting in her eyes sharp and hard.

"Are you sleeping with someone else?"

She asks, and though she tries to keep her voice level he hears the tremble in it just below the surface. The words are like a brand on his skin and he recoils from them. There are tears clinging to the curves of her eyelashes but they do not fall.

"No!"

He says, and then again, quieter.

"No. I would never."

"Then why? Why are you gone so much? What kind of job keeps you late night after night like this?"

But he doesn't answer, can't answer. The silence stretches between them and finally she rolls over again, back facing him. Neither of them sleep that night, just lie there and listen to each other breathe until weak morning light filters through the window. Togusa is the first to get up.

They're all just pieces, Tosuga knows that. The Major said as much to them, so many months ago, they're just cogs of a greater machine. And maybe she was just making a point but there's a truth to her words. They are just pieces, useful and specialized but replaceable none-the-less. And Tosuga is perhaps the most replaceable of them all. When the Major recruited him she told him it was because he was different, unique. She said that in predictability lies death, but in so many ways Togusa is nothing but predictable and what does he have to offer, really? Seven years on the force used to sound impressive but now compared to the heavy hitters on this team it's nothing. They say you are greater then the sum of your parts but Togusa is nothing but defined by them. Not greater then, but equal too. Confined by them but unwilling to change, afraid to change.

The problem is he's different from the rest of Section Nine, a difference that runs deeper then skin, deeper then what their bones are made of. Togusa is normal in every sense of the word. No tragic background, no shadowed history. He knows the rest of the team have done things, seen things, he will never understand, doesn't know if he wants to. He was born to a happily married couple, grew up comfortably middle class, became a cop, got married young. The most rebellious thing he did was drop out of college halfway through his second year to go to police academy and even that his parents took in stride. He often wonders if was just a case of right place right time that landed him with this job. He knows that he was the last one to be recruited, knows that the Major was under pressure to find a sixth person for the squad. Maybe he just happened to be there and she considered him harmless enough to fulfill the quota. Good enough, but nothing more.

The thing is sometimes he can almost forget, the differences between them. Sometimes he can almost pretend. Pretend that they are the same, pretend he belongs in the same way that the rest of them seem too. But you can only pretend for so long before reality comes crashing down to remind you of the truth.

In retrospect he realizes it's his fault. He let his mind slip, so desperate to find the kidnapped girls, so afraid of what he'd find when he pulled the doors of the truck open that he doesn't even hear the woman slip up behind him. Not until she's almost on him does he realize and spin, already pulling his Mateba from the holster. He actually holds his own in the fight, even gets her arm off. He's proud for a split second before Batou's yelling at him,

"Get rid of the arm, throw it away!"

He shouts. Togusa looks at him, confused, and then back down at the blinking red light nestled in the shoulder socket of the prosthetic arm. The pieces click and he throws it far and hard but it's a case of too little too late and the world turns to white heat and fire.

When he wakes up he's against the far wall. He coughs, lungs tasting smoke and ash, and his ribs ache. There's a ringing in his ears that won't go away and for a second he's afraid he's gone deaf. He looks around, dazed. The room is in shambles, and the truck, the truck is pulling away and with it the kidnapped girls. He tries to stand but his left leg folds and crumples under him like paper. He looks down and sees blood, soaked into the cloth of his left pants leg and turning the tan an ugly brown color. There's a piece of rebar, maybe an inch wide and half a foot long, sticking out the meaty part of his thigh. It doesn't hurt so he reaches down and pulls it out, and then it does and he has to bite his lip hard not to scream.

Batou's there then, pushing him back down to the floor and taking Togusa's hands in his and pressing them over the hole in Togusa's leg. Numbly he lets him, too shocked to protest. The pressure hurts though, and it cuts through the fog. Reaching one bloody hand up he presses it against Batou's shoulder,

"Go,"

He whispers in a voice choked with smoke,

"The girls."

Batou nods.

"Stay here. Keep pressure on that."

And then he's gone, off to do what Togusa could not. Stay here, he thinks, and almost laughs. Where else would he go, where else could he go. This is all he has left, now.

Batou's gone for a long time. Or at least Togusa thinks he is, he isn't sure. Minutes don't seem to matter as much when you're losing blood at an alarming rate. He lifts a shaking hand, stares at the red staining it. Immutable proof of his difference, of a flesh and blood body that is so easily broken. Part of him wonders if he's been forgotten, if he will sit here and let the ash and dust settle on him till he becomes nothing more then part of the city. Another broken piece in a sea of scrap, another lost set of bones with no one to claim them. He shakes the thought off, it's not like him to be so defeatist. Must be the blood loss. And as he sits and bleeds and slowly slips away he thinks, you can always pretend, until you can't.

Meijiro leaves him, after that incident. She's kind enough to wait until he gets out of the hospital, visits him the days that he's there but when she smiles it's sad and there's a distant look in her eyes. He comes home one day from work to an empty apartment and a note on the table. She's taken Aiko and gone to stay with her mother, just for a while, it says, just until she figures things out, but he knows she isn't coming back. He's not surprised, really. They've been drifting apart for a while now. He's always gone and when he's home he's tired and he tries hard but they both knew it wouldn't be enough. And sometimes he'll catch her watching him and she seems almost afraid. Of him or for him, he's not sure. Not sure which would be worse, either.

He knows she doesn't love him anymore, not the way she did when they first got married at least. And if he's honest with himself he's not sure if he does anymore either. Not sure if he every really loved her. He thinks sometimes he was more in love with the idea of her, of a family. Of someone who needed him and always would. But now she doesn't need him and she's left and taken his daughter with her and it's not a surprise but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

He sits there for a while, just holding the note in his hands and staring at the empty places his family used to be, feels the hole inside. Then he gets up and shrugs on his jacket and goes back to work. As he drives the dark empty streets he thinks it's probably for the best. What he does is dangerous, the kind of dangerous that can get you killed and if they're not with him they're probably safer. If they ever got hurt because of him he doesn't think he'd be able to live with himself. And maybe in a way this was inevitable. Maybe he was never meant for this kind of happiness, and he should just be glad for the years he got. The thought doesn't make him feel any better.

He spends the next two nights at Section Nine's offices. It's easier then trying to sleep in that empty apartment, at least he can work here. At least there's something to distract him. He can pretend he's just busy, pretend that when he goes home he'll still have a wife and daughter waiting for him. Pretend the world he's built for himself isn't running through his fingers like ash. Sometimes it feels like all he does is pretend, but at least he's getting pretty good at it.

The third morning he wakes to Pazu standing over him with a bemused look on his face. He blinks, trying to get his bearings. He's sprawled out awkwardly over the small couch in the break room, his jacket draped over him like a makeshift blanket.

"Did you spend the night here again?"

Pazu asks, and then, before giving him a chance to reply,

"Damn, Togusa, you look like shit."

He pushes himself up, jacket sliding off his chest, and rubs at the grit in his eyes. His mouth tastes likes stale coffee and he swallows, throat dry.

"Good morning to you too,"

His voice sounds like sandpaper, rough and low and ragged, and he winces at the sound of it. He stands, trying to stretch out the kinks in his back, this couch really isn't long enough for him. He wonders vaguely if he can get Aramaki to shell out for a new one, he could probably put it down as an operational cost. Pazu's still staring at him, a strange look on his face.

"Is everything good with you? You really do look like crap."

"Well thanks for that."

Tosuga says dryly, bending down to pick up his jacket where it had fallen onto the floor and trying to smooth the wrinkles out of it.

"Seriously man, when was the last time you went home? Or ate real food? You've been wearing that suit for like three days straight."

He gives up on the jacket, pulling it on over his equally wrinkled shirt.

"I'm fine, I've just had a lot of work. I'll go home tonight, promise."

Pazu looks unconvinced but after a long second he shrugs,

"Whatever, it's your funeral."

Togusa heads to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, running a hand through his hair. Pazu's right, he does look like crap. There are new lines around his mouth and forehead, dark smudges under his eye, and there's something empty to his face. It's obvious his suit's been slept in, and there's a coffee stain on the collar. He sighs and resolves to actually go home tonight, at least to pick up a change of clothes and maybe a toothbrush. When he walks back into the breakroom Pazu's gone but there's a packaged sandwich and a can of iced coffee sitting on the table. He shakes his head and smiles.

Togusa knows that the Major and Batou and a few of the others go out for drinks after work sometimes. They've never extended the invitation to him and he understands, he's too different from them. Too soft, too naïve, too human. He understands, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting a little.

Normally at the end of the day he's the first to leave, he says it's because he has to get back to his wife and daughter but mostly it's so he can pretend they're not excluding him from whatever it is they have. It's not that they don't ask, it's that he doesn't let him, is what he tells himself. The lie sounds flat in his head.

Today though, he takes his time. Fiddles with his locker, trying to look busy as the rest of the squad gets ready to go. It's pathetic, he knows, to linger here waiting for an invitation that will never come. It's just he doesn't want to go home, not tonight. Not to an empty apartment and an empty bed with sheets that still smell like Meijiro. So he lingers and he waits and watches as one by one they file out. The last one to leave is Batou, as he walks past he slaps Togusa lightly on the shoulder.

"See you tomorrow,"

He says. And Togusa nods and smiles and gives him a little wave goodbye as he walks out the door.

After everyone's gone he carefully shuts the door to his locker, leans forward and presses his forehead to the cool metal. He tries to breath, in and out, tries to steady himself, but there's something bubbling in his chest and it's hot and bitter and sad and so lonely and all too much at once. Clenching his right hand into a fist he pulls it back and drives it hard into the locker next to his. He stands there, like that, for a moment. His knuckles aching and his breath coming short and sharp. Stands there till he hears a throat clear behind him. He jumps a little at the sound, spinning. Ishikawa's standing in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

"Jesus. What did that locker ever do to you?"

Togusa doesn't reply, just turns around and picks his bag up from the floor. There's a dent in the metal where he hit it.

"What are you doing here, I thought you left."

He asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Carefully not replying to the question.

"I forgot something."

Ishikawa says, leaning against the door-frame, hands in pockets. And then after a beat,

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

Togusa replies shortly, as he brushes past Ishikawa out into the hall. He can feel Ishikawa's eyes on his back as he walks away. Part of him wants Ishikawa to call out, because if he did he'd turn around and maybe Ishikawa would ask if he was alright again and this time he might tell him the truth. But Ishikawa doesn't call out and Togusa doesn't turn around and his answer remains buried beneath his tongue.

Because the truth is he's not alright. The truth is there's an ache that's settled deep in his chest somewhere between his lungs and behind his heart. A constant throbbing pain that never seems to go away, an emptiness he's never felt before. All his life Togusa has needed to be needed, to be wanted. It's why he was always popular in high school, why he got married early and had a kid and became a cop, it's why he joined Section Nine. And now he is neither. He's lost his wife and his child, his friends from the force, both his parents died years ago. Now all he has left is a job that he's not sure he's cut out for and a team who probably realizes that. And it's not that he doesn't trust them because he trusts them with his life, it's that he doesn't know if they trust him. And that's not something he's sure he can live with, but he'll have too. Because the other option is quitting and that's not something he thinks he can live with either.

He spends his birthday in a bar. The bartender raises an eyebrow after his third round,

"Special occasion to be drinking on a Wednesday night?"

He asks, as pours more whiskey into Togusa's glass. Togusa smiles and there's no humor in it.

"It's my birthday."

If the man is surprised it doesn't show on his face. He just sets down the whiskey bottle and starts to polish a glass.

"Well, happy birthday then."

Togusa raises his whiskey in thanks. The night drags on, the sun sets and people start to trickle out. The clock strikes midnight. Togusa is 29. He feels so much older.

A little while later the bartender points his chin at a woman sitting down at the other end of the bar. She's pretty, in a sharp sort of way. The kind of pretty that draws blood.

"She's been eyeing you all night, you know."

He says. Togusa looks over, surprised. Their eyes meet and she smiles. He buys her a drink and she walks over, sliding onto the bar stool next to him. They talk for a bit, about nothing really, and she lets a hand fall on his thigh.

"Want to go back to my place?"

She whispers, and her voice is soft and husky. He doesn't say yes, but he lets her take him by the hand and lead him out of the bar, lets her call a cab and press soft kisses to his neck in the back of it. Lets her lead him up the stairs in her building and unlock the door. He doesn't say yes but he lets her and in a way it's worse.

They fuck, and as he holds her soft forgiving body close to his and feels her warm breath against his ear for a little while the hole in his chest doesn't feel quite as empty.

He wakes up the next morning before she does and watches her sleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Drinks in the gentle swell of her breasts, the way her hair coils around her neck, the slight part of her lips, how the weak morning light that spills through the window casts a pale glow on her skin. It's like so many mornings with Meijiro, soft and quiet and warm, and yet at the same time it feels like an empty parody. Thinking of Meijiro makes him think of Aiko and suddenly he feels sick. His daughter doesn't belong here, in the bed of a stranger. He stands, throwing off the covers and collects his clothes from where they're scattered on the floor. Pulling on his pants he checks the time, it's only five. Plenty of time to get to work, then. He gives a last look to the woman still lying asleep in the bed. She is beautiful, yes, but she is not his. As he turns and opens the door to her small apartment he realizes he does not even know her name.

He decides to walk to work. It's not far and there's something he likes about the city in the morning. When most people are still at home in bed, before the streets fill and the hustle and bustle of the day sets in there is quiet, and he finds in it a strange sense of peace. It's chilly, a sharp sort of cold that cuts through cloth and skin and muscle to the bone and he pulls his coat tighter. His head is pounding, mouth muzzy and dry and he smells like cheep beer and perfume and underneath it the salty smell of sex and guilt and secrets. He finds no peace in this morning.

He's the first to get to work, lights still off and rooms silent and empty. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, he's spent a lot of late nights alone here. He stops by the locker room and grabs a little bag he keeps there with a toothbrush and a comb for when he doesn't make it home. He lets the faucet run cold and scrubs his face, trying to get rid of the layer of grime and sweat but even after his face is red and raw he still feels dirty.

He's just changing into the spare jacket and shirt he keeps at work when Batou walks in. He watches Togusa button his shirt, face blank and nuetral and for some reason it annoys him.

"What?"

Togusa huffs irritably, closing the door to his locker a little harder then perhaps is necessary. Batou doesn't react, face still impassive.

"Late night?"

He asks, walking over to open his own locker.

"None of your business."

Snaps Togusa. He immediately feels bad, something in him deflating and he lets the anger rush out of him water out of a spilled glass. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Sorry… it's just been… a long night."

Batou shrugs and doesn't reply, the shining lenses of his eyes unreadable.

"You've been having a lot of those lately."

And Togusa doesn't say anything, because what is there to say to that.

He starts smoking again, after Meijiro leaves. He had before he'd started dating her but she'd always hated it, said the smell made her sick, so when they got married he'd dropped the habit. Now that's she's gone though he doesn't see why not. There's something relaxing to the routine, something familiar about the taste of nicotine and ash. It is a choice, a decision that grounds him within himself and he clutches at the sense of self it gives him.

It's been a long morning and when he has a few minutes Togusa slips away, pocketing his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He pushes open the door to the roof and sees Saito leaning against the chain link fence that runs the perimeter. Letting the door swing shut behind him he steps out of the stairwell and walks over to him, pulling out his carton of cigarettes.

Saito looks up at the sound of the door closing and Togusa sees something that might be surprise on his face when he sees Togusa.

"Didn't know you smoked."

He says when Togusa reaches him, but when Togusa slides a cigarette out of the carton and puts it up to his lips Saito reaches in his pocket and lights it for him. Togusa inhales, holding the bitter smoke in his lungs for a long second before exhaling. They stand in silence for a while, watching ribbons of smoke dance and twist before they fade away and dissipate into the slate grey sky. Eventually, though, Saito opens his mouth to speak. Togusa interrupts him before he can say anything,

"Please, if you're going to ask if I'm okay, don't. I'm fine."

Saito shakes his head, taking another drag.

"I wasn't going to."

Togusa sends a small prayer of thanks up, dropping his cigarette on the ground and moving to stamp it out. Too many damn people have been asking that question lately and he's getting tired of answering it.

"I was going to ask how long it's been since your wife left you."

Togusa freezes, foot halfway down, and stares at Saito in shock. For a second he thinks about denying it but then he realizes there's no point and so he sighs in defeat, letting his foot fall.

"How did you know?"

Saito shrugs,

"Wasn't that hard to figure out. You spend the night here way more then you used to, you haven't mentioned her in weeks, and you came to work yesterday smelling like another women's perfume. Either you're cheating, which knowing you seems unlikely, or she's not in the picture anymore."

Togusa looks down.

"Do you think anyone else knows?"

Saito shrugs again, dropping the glowing butt of his own cigarette to the ground and grinding the heel of his boot into it and sticking his hands in his pockets.

"I don't know. Probably not."

He says, and pushing himself off the fence starts to walk away. He's halfway to the door when Togusa calls out after him,

"Hey, do me a favor and don't say anything to the others."

Saito pauses for a moment, a bleak figure against a bleak sky, then nods.

"Alright."

He says, and then he disappears back into the building leaving Togusa to his thoughts. Letting his head fall back against the chain link behind him he sighs and lights another cigarette.

When he's running through the back alleyways of Newport with a growing bloodstain on his shirt and a trail of red smeared on the walls behind him he says out loud to the emptiness,

"Maybe I should have gotten prosthetics."

And he's joking, but there's a small part of him that's not. He'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it before, prosthetizing. Hard not to want it a little bit when he sees what it can give you. He certainly wouldn't be having the problems he is right now. But at the same time he's not sure who he'd be if he did it. He feels so defined by his humanity now, by his beating heart and the blood that runs through his veins and a body that is his and his alone. He's not sure who he'd be, if he changed that. Would he still be Togusa? Or at least Togusa in the same way as before, or would he be a different Togusa, a new one.

As he lays on the cool pavement and feels the blood seep out of his body and the rain pound against the back of his neck he thinks they're all just math and chemistry anyways, all just star dust. So what does it matter if you're made of calcium and carbon or iron and steel, everybody dies just the same, in the end. What does it matter if you bleed blood or oil, what if all that matters is that you bleed.

He signs himself out of the hospital early. He's tired of sitting around doing nothing, wants to get back to work. The nurse who discharges him asks him if he has anybody she should call to pick him up. For a second he considers asking Batou or maybe the Major but the idea is fleeting and he just shakes his head. There's a sad look in her eyes, as she hands him the paperwork. He signs it, his name in ink is stark against the white paper.

He ends up calling a cab. He sits in the back and presses his cheek against the window and watches the city speed by. When he gets back to his apartment he shucks his jacket and shoes by the door and wanders slowly through the emptiness. It's bare and cold here now. He dropped off most of the things Meijiro had left behind at her new place the other day and now all that's left is the furniture. The bones of what used to be his home but now feels more like a hotel room. Aiko had looked so much older, it had only been a few months but kids grow so quickly at this age and he wonders how much of her life he's missing. Wonders how long it will take her to forget him. Something in him aches at the thought and it has nothing to do with the stitches in his side.

He goes back to work sooner then he probably should. Sitting around at home is driving him crazy, too much time to think and too remember. He manages to convince Aramaki to let him back after promising not to take part in any active duty ops. When he walks into the meeting room it falls silent, surprise painted on his teammates face.

"Togusa, you sure you should be back yet?"

Ishikawa asks, bushy eyebrows raised, and the words hang in the air uncomfortably. The Major looks at him, face serious, and a question in her eyes. He just nods, and she offers him a small smile and nods back. And just like that the matter is settled. He looks around for a place to sit. The couches are all filled and for a second he feels like it's the first day of high school all over again, unsure of what table to sit at. Unsure of where he's wanted. But then Borma shifts over on the couch closest to him and Togusa takes the offered seat, the meeting resumes and the feeling is gone. He learns an important lesson that day, though. They'd do just fine without him.


End file.
